


Early Start

by Talkin_to_a_Lady



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24496945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talkin_to_a_Lady/pseuds/Talkin_to_a_Lady
Summary: Arthur has some time to kill, and decides to indulge in some self-love.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33





	Early Start

**Author's Note:**

> High Honour Arthur fantasises about being closer to Low Honour to fulfil a sexual fantasy about the reader.

Arthur sniffed deeply as he awoke, the temperature was warm, and he had had to tie the top of his union suit around his waist last night, just to not swelter. It was early, and he was begrudgingly commandeered to do a patrol watch on Karen’s behalf, Sean having stolen her away to god knows where.  
He stretched, his eyes barely opening to look at his pocket watch, desperately trying to stop the pale glow of daylight pierce his tiredness. _“Three goddamn hours ‘til I need to be awake_ ,” he grumbles hoarsely to himself. He rolls onto his back with a huff, flings an arm heavily across his forehead and stares up at the roof of his tent; the tent you and the girls made him for his birthday two years ago, “Sleepin’ under what is no more than a blanket ain’t good for an _old man_ , Mister Morgan” you’d teased, flashing that devilish smile with hooded eyes that caused his breath to shudder every time.  
_He sleepily rubs his chest in comfort._  
Before Blackwater, before all the nonsense.  
Prior to that day in Blackwater, the two of you had been close; working grifts together as well as the occasional quiet homestead robbery that needed poise, smarts and dexterity, and the way you were able to slip keenly through tight gaps was most useful.  
_He closes his eyes._  
He smiles to himself, remembering every time he would let you climb through, “Ladies first”, he’d say, enjoying the view that followed.  
_His right-hand grips at his chest slightly._  
But since the day that moron Micah caused a commotion, there’s been no time to work together; Dutch had Arthur out covering more deeds than one man could, and things had been a constant obstacle. But he hadn’t stopped noticing you; the way you always had a loose strand of hair waving in the breeze; tousled and stubborn as it broke free from your constantly unkempt bun, the way you’d lean forward, resting an elbow on your knee as you rubbed your neck by the Campfire, chatting to the girls, smiling with that grin, biting your lip when you heard gossip or discussed a taboo subject.  
_His arm drifts lazily towards his abdomen, stretching his palm across its softness_.  
The way you swigged a bottle of Whiskey. _My God_. The night he had brought Sean back would not be easily forgotten, “So good at protectin’ us all, Arthur,” you’d teased in a low, throaty voice as you gripped the neck of his Whiskey bottle and put it to your lips; tipping your head back as you looked at him, your mouth smiling behind the drink.  
_He lets out a small grunt, his brow furrows for a second_.  
You handed it back, wiping the corners of your lightly open mouth with your thumb and forefinger, squeezing your lower lip a little before turning on your heel and skipping off to dance and sing.  
_His left arm slips over his eyes as he exhales sharply though his nose, his knees bending upwards, as his right hand slides down to his waistband, his fingers coaxing a path under the tight knot of his shirt sleeves tied under his belly button._  
He’ll never forget the day you appeared in his life; a night of laughter and drinking in a Saloon back West, with Dutch and the guys after a particularly successful week’s activity, turned into a night that he thought of regularly.  
He was flanked by his friends; totally ignoring him as women of the night sat on their laps, laughing falsely at their conversation. He had felt awkward and looking towards the bar he’d seen Bill march towards him, “Dutch needs you, Morgan, back room.” He had stood immediately, hand on his revolver, and pushed his way through the door. There you had been; sat in a chair, an insolent look of defiance on your face as Dutch pointed a gun to your forehead. You were dressed like the Saloon Girls; a short white frilled skirt, which had ridden up as you’d tussled with his mentor; allowing a glimpse of lavender silk French shorts, lined with pale blue lace, kissing the tops of your thighs as your crossed legs flowed down, partially covered by the over-knee stockings you wore.  
_His breath stuttered as his hand followed the warmth in his crotch, he stroked the skin above his length, teasing himself, allowing the tingle to draw out as he felt the strain against the fabric, teasing himself like he imagined you would do to him.  
_Your breasts rose and fell, clamped kissed together as you were laced tightly in a corset. Your hair up in a ringleted design. The angriest pout on your swollen lips as Dutch threatened you.  
“You ain’t gonna shoot me, Sir. You ain’t the sort.” You’d said to him, raising a smug eyebrow.  
_Arthur arched his back muscles, and nuzzled into his left arm as he thought about that smart mouth, the curl of your lips as you‘d smiled. He let his hand drift lower, below the strain, to lightly stroke at the ache in his balls.  
_You’d been running a con that had worked many times before; you’d sneak into the saloon, dressed as a hooker, chat up the wealthier looking men, get drinks bought, and pickpocket them for everything they had, before saying you’d meet them in a room if they paid for one night. You’d worked it out with the Saloon owners; they’d get a room paid; you’d get the loot. But you’d picked the wrong man that night and Dutch had known your game from the outset, marching you to a back room, and demanding answers.  
“I’m in no mood to have my night ruined by some trussed up delight,” Dutch had huffed, “Arthur, deal with this, _please_ , find out her game and send her off.”

The memory becomes hazy from there; it had been three years since the truth had happened, and three years since his mind twisting it into the fantasy he would have loved to live out, had taken over. He vaguely remembers your need for money, and that your skills would be of use to the Camp, but now? Now he preferred the lie.  
_He brought his hand to the base of his shaft, the heat on his grip instantly bringing beads of sweat across his body_.  
“You really think robbin’ a man like Dutch is a good move, gurly?”  
“I weren’t robbin’ him, I-”  
Arthur stepped towards you, unconvinced, his hand on his gun belt  
“I were takin’ his stuff. But that ain’t robbin’!”  
_He lightly drags his rough hand up and down the length of him, rolling the tip in his fist, moistening his palm, a slight whimper whispers from his lips as he pictures your face, looking up at him; wide eyed and concerned as his broad shadow falls over your face_.  
“And why is that, young lady?”  
“Because I don’t use a gun”  
“That right?”  
“I usually just distract them with the one they carry in their britches” you’d smirk; your eyes twinkling darkly above that filthy smile. That dirty mouth.  
_He pulls his knees closer to him, the muscles in his ass clenching as his hips rise off his camp bed as he pushes himself tightly through his grip, a soft hum pushes out through his lips_.  
“And it works, huh?”  
“For the most part,” you’d shrug, folding your arms across your straining chest, “pretty sure it’s workin’ right now.”  
_His left arm drops as he drags a hand slowly down his face to mop some of the sweat away, his skin is on fire as he pictures that sideways look he’s seen you do a thousand times; unapologetic and self-aware. He stops at his neck, gripping his shoulder muscle as it tightens with each stroke of his right hand as it wrestles against the fabric of his union suit trousers until his grip was free to move again.  
_He would grab you by the face and pull you up out of that chair, “You got a lotta nerve for a girl in her underwear that don’t carry a gun.” He might say, gripping your face tightly, causing your lips to push together, reddening as the blood pools there.  
_He pushes himself to sit up, leaning his weight into his left hand flat against the bed, his jaw clamped, breath whistling harshly through gritted teeth as his strokes become quicker.  
_He would guide you roughly backwards around the room, pushing you against the wall by your throat.  
“I’m sorry!” you would snap angrily, “I’m just tryin’ ta make some money.”  
“Then make it like the gurls you’re dressin’ as do.”  
_His head drops back violently as his hips thrust harsh and rough into his hand as he thinks about kissing you, forcing his mouth onto yours, his tongue parting your soft ruby lips, gripping your face as he hears you whimper_.  
He’d pull back from you and stare you down, your eyes would flash with a hunger as you steadied yourself breathlessly against the wall, “Take it off,” he’d demand. You’d straighten up, unhooking your corset to free your curves, your pressure-marked skin would pucker as the cold air hit you.  
_He sighs from his throat as he thinks about the air hitting your breasts, hardening your nipples.  
_“And those.” He’d point to your underwear as he removed his gun belt and unbuttoned his fly, “They ain’t needed no more.”  
You’d hook your thumbs over both waistbands of the skirt and shorts, lowering them gently to the floor; you’d know you were teasing him and it would make him mad. He would step up to you, inches from you and grab the back of your head as you dropped your clothes, “You might as well stay down there.”  
_His excitement overwhelmed him, and without missing a stroke, he launched himself forward with his left hand, and hunched over onto his knees, pulling and stroking harder and tightly as his hips were grinding with the motion_.  
He would drop his pants and look down at you, your expression shocked by what you saw, “That mouth better open wider, gurl,” he would threaten as he gripped on those curls on top of your head and pull you onto him.  
_He hisses quietly; saliva firing from the corners of his mouth as he bucks hard through his own grip, the fabric of his pants caressing his balls as his hips thrust back and forth violently_.  
You’d take him in your mouth, a small grunt of struggle as you try to accommodate him completely, the warmth of your mouth swirling across him as you flick your tongue around his length. You’d moan from the pleasure of being completely at his command, and grab his hips, pulling him deeper into you, opening and closing your jaw with each pull forward of his hips, to let him in.  
_Arthur growls your name as his body tightens, sweat drips forward from his hanging locks leaving dark spots on his canvas bed, his left hand curls into a fist, desperately and blindly searching for anything that he can grip onto_.  
You’d grip his ass with your nails, scratching, maybe cause a cut or two, as you moved deeper, your mouth warm and wet, spit snaking out the side of your mouth as he controlled your head’s speed, you’d exhale sharply from your nose, the warm breath hitting the edge of his stomach.  
_Arthur tensed, forcing himself quiet; the pressure causing spots to flash behind his tightly clamped eyelids, his mouth hung open as his breath stuttered in his throat, his abdomen clenched as his back convulsed, firing his hips forward sharply, his ass clenched as if he was trying to push his entire body through his tight grip. He felt the wave of pleasure pulse up through his shaft, firing downwards at the foot of his bed, the last of it running thick and warm over his whitened knuckles_.

Breathless and sweaty, Arthur opens his eyes; their focus need time to adjust. He lets his hand drop from his length, exhausted and aching as he wipes the back his hand on his bedroll. With a tired sigh he falls backwards onto his back and tucks himself away. He looks at the clock; two hours until he needs to be awake. He laughs and shakes his head at himself, rolls on to his side and chances some rest.


End file.
